Dig for Home
by WL.Erkling
Summary: Harry has lost more than himself after the war. Alone, searching endlessly for something that will help fill the void, Harry digs for home. [Werewolf!Harry, Drarry]
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Characters, settings, and themes from the Harry Potter universe are property of J.K Rowling. I neither own, nor am making profit from the writing or sharing of this story.

* * *

Flames cracked along his skin, melting the countryside evening that had him in its thrall. Slowly, achingly, Harry Potter moved each finger, each toe, each agonizingly stiff joint. It wasn't until his body had been freed from its frigid captivity that his eyes popped open, alert to the rich tones of earth and grass. He groaned as he took in the sight of his dirt-caked hands and feet. Surely, there would be smears on his face as well. With nothing else to do but scrub the moon's memories away, Harry planted a hand on one knee and hefted himself upright. The fog of a steaming shower would serve to replace the haze swirling through his mind.

Shortly after falling into bed, Harry felt it again. It hadn't stopped since the night he left. For months, he tried to ignore it, tried locking himself away until he couldn't fight it anymore. He'd even given in to Hermione's pitying side-glances and proffered vials of dreamless sleep. They did nothing to quell the uneasiness that rumbled through his chest and dropped low into his belly each time he breathed. There, it snarled like a waiting dragon, flame hot and bellowing.

In the weeks since he'd allowed himself to be, to move, to feel like anything other than some shamble-man, Harry could feel it calling to him. It sought him in dreams, it called him from the long hallways of the small cottage he lived in, now alone. It reached out and took hold of him until he followed its smoky tendrils back to that place. Always that place. Always when he was not himself, either. He never remembered where it was clearly enough to get back, but somehow his other self found it easily.

Tonight would be like the last. He wasn't sure how much more he could take. This heat was burning him alive from the inside out and his lungs were on fire, but if he could just breathe the flames, he might be all right. It was a shame all he could do was inhale the night air like it was a hail storm put there precisely to irritate his already sensitive skin. Tonight would be painful—not gentle, not quick. The almost-moon rose and Harry was pulled from himself, thrown into that other part of his being that was just a bit too much other for him to wrap around.

 _There. There. It's there. Follow._ He bellowed and gnashed his teeth as bones reformed. His knuckles drug along the ground, one back leg already popping into place while the other was a mass of bloody human skin morphing into a sleek, dark brown blur. He cried out once when his jaw reset. That was always the most painful, as it sent a wave of sound ricocheting through his skull, now more elongated and aerodynamic. _Dig. There. Dig._ No questions. He was beyond questions. His body knew and obeyed. Paws struck the earth, claws striking the fresh dirt and shucking it between his back legs. As he sunk slowly into the ground beneath himself, he paused.

 _There! Found! Dig!_ He was frantic now. At one point, a fox came 'round the outskirts of a nearby tree, fleeing some overhead predator and ran across his path. The snarl barely left his lips before teeth sunk into the creature's flank, a warning bite, but enough to send it scurrying off faster than it arrived. He was nearly surrounded by the mountain of dirt now; his haunches still up on the bank. Some of it was falling back into the hole as he dug and this required more effort. It was there. Just a bit more. He stopped. Cautiously, head tilted, he leaned forward and sniffed at the dirt in front of him. It smelled like… _him_. Why did it smell like _him?_ He whimpered, sniffing again. _Gone._ The wolf sat back on its haunches, exhausted and confused. _Home_. He spun around, tucked his tail around his nose, and fell asleep. There, he could smell _him_ as he slept, and the dragon was quiet.


	2. Chapter 2

He is not where he is supposed to be. The first thing he remembers is the smell. _His_ smell. Thunder-dragon-heart racing, Harry's hands dig into the—dirt? More dirt. Why is he still in the dirt? It comes back slowly. Pain. Dig. _Him_. Confused. _Home._

Tears fall and he is unable to stop them. He hasn't cried since it happened. He hasn't had a good enough reason to. Perhaps his other self dug his grave. Maybe this is where he is supposed to die. Looking around, he realizes that his other self would fit here, but not his whole-self. He shifts a foot and it snags. Harry is naked; there is nothing but dirt around him. Slowly, he reaches out and touches the thing at his foot. It's dark, soft, and collapses beneath his touch.

The smell is stronger now and the other part of him is racing wildly inside, crying and pacing and he closes his eyes to try and get it to calm enough for him to breathe. Breathing is bad. Breathing draws that scent in deeper. Deeper now that this thing—whatever this thing is, is now pulled out of the dirt. The scent is stronger in the wind as it blows toward Harry. Cloth. There's cloth in his hand. It's dark and perfect and… he knows that color. That deep, mesmerizing shade of midnight that is almost black, but not quite. Never that.

He shakes the distant chuckle from his thoughts. Not now. Unfolding the cloth, smelling so strongly of _him_ , he lays it across his lap. Inside, there is a book. He knows this, too. It is bound tightly by soft leather; the cover has a faintly raised design of vines that creep across from one corner to another and wriggle beneath the surface. On the right edge, where it would open, Harry slides his fingers up and feels the vines that have wrapped themselves across. There is a spell. A word. Maybe two? He has to remember. The hackles on his other's wither rise and he ignores this. The words are important.

"Int-interfector draconum."

From beneath the vines, a teacup dragon emerges to stare out at Harry. It blinks, yawns lazily, then goes back to sleep. Harry cannot process this. He wants to open the book. He wants to know what's inside, but this was _his_. What if it wasn't meant for him? What if it was meant for someone else? He thinks about putting it back, but his other side howls, growling defensively until Harry slides the tip of one finger beneath the cover. It opens with a slight crack and he jumps. His other yips at him and he shakes his head, trying to focus.

Eyes cannot focus, words blur, ink blends together on the page. He does not understand what he reads until he's read it several times.

"Dearest Harry, if ever this book finds its way to you, know that there are scant words I could give you in return for what you have given me. Fear, the drive to succeed, anger, joy, happiness, love, ecstasy: all of these things I have experienced because of you, Harry. Do not grieve me, for I am sure you would not be reading this if something had not befallen me. Instead, I want you to remember all of the reasons we fell in love. Do you remember the poem I read to you on our second date?

loving me will not be easy.

it will be war. you will

hold the gun and i will hand

you the bullets. so breathe,

and embrace the beauty of

the massacre that lies ahead.

-r.m. drake

I knew I loved you then, Harry. Let me walk you through my memories of our time together. When you are tired and ready—not now, but when you are truly ready, read the last page."

* * *

Harry slogged through life for nearly a decade. Always alone, except for his other, he kept to his cottage. There was something to be said for the quiet places, the reflective silences. Harry knew those all too well. When it seemed as if the wizarding world had forgotten its hero, someone would come trudging around his property, make a feeble attempt to ask about the war, and be scared off by his gruff appearance. It didn't help that he often stayed in wolf form for days at a time and rarely spoke. There was no need. Although they tried, his friends grew weary of his distance and, over time, stopped calling after him. This, too, felt right.

Nine years, three months, and seven days from when Harry found Draco's book, he read the last page.

"Come and lay

by my side, Love.

I'll colour the spaces

of your empty heart

with starlight and moonlight,

and I'll scatter gentle kisses

on your fragile bones.

There is peace

waiting for you

in my arms,

there is a place

for you to call home.

Return to me, my love. I will find you, always."

Harry's other grew restless. They were tired. Grey and grizzled, both of them had been alone too long. They needed _him._ They needed _home._ They walked slowly back to that spot, marked from so long ago. There, just visible, was the indentation from where his other—no that wasn't right: they—dug deep into the earth to bring back something that was missing. The dragon had been quiet for some time, but now he felt a flutter—a weak reminder that it was there. He smiled as he stripped his clothing, tossing it aside in the warm grass.

As he stepped down into the impression created so long ago, he and his other were finally one as, together, they turned around once, twice, three times. He stuck his nose beneath his tail and went to sleep. _Home._


End file.
